


Matchmaker, Matchmaker

by WhoMe9102



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Rare Pairings, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-02-10 02:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoMe9102/pseuds/WhoMe9102
Summary: A 'What If' scenario where instead of trapping the nightmare demon in a jar, Sabrina just banished it back to Hell. The Dark Lord finds out that this small time demon nearly ruins his plans, so he gets more involved in the personal lives of the Spellmans, one in particular.And well... You'll just have to read it to find out what happens.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw the episode when that nightmare demon made everyone live through their worst nightmares, and I saw Zelda's nightmare was her sister, Hilda, cooking a dinner for Dark Lord-Father Blackwood hybrid, I thought it was really funny.
> 
> Anyway, after I watched that episode, I thought that someone else had the same idea, so I checked AO3, and no one really posted any HIlda/Faustus. So I thought that I should.
> 
> Also, the Graphic Depiction of Violence is only really there for the very first part of the fic.
> 
> EDIT: Just in case anyone was questioning about why this fic has a Teen rating but there is a Graphic Violence warning, is because the Dark Lord is evil and I wanted to portray that, it'd be too OOC if he was a matchmaker AND really child-friendly. And the Teen rating is because it's mostly character interaction and oh yeah SATAN is a character in this fic. It can't hurt being cautious here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 'What If' scenario where instead of trapping the nightmare demon in a jar, Sabrina just banished it back to Hell. The Dark Lord finds out that this small time demon nearly ruins his plans, so he gets more involved in the personal lives of the Spellmans, one in particular.
> 
> And well... You'll just have to read it to find out what happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I saw the episode when that nightmare demon made everyone live through their worst nightmares, and I saw Zelda's nightmare was her sister, Hilda, cooking a dinner for Dark Lord-Father Blackwood hybrid, I thought it was really funny.
> 
> Anyway, after I watched that episode, I thought that someone else had the same idea, so I checked AO3, and no one really posted any HIlda/Faustus. So I thought that I should.
> 
> Also, the Graphic Depiction of Violence is only really there for the very first part of the fic.
> 
> EDIT: Just in case anyone was questioning about why this fic has a Teen rating but there is a Graphic Violence warning, is because the Dark Lord is evil and I wanted to portray that, it'd be too OOC if he was a matchmaker AND really child-friendly. And the Teen rating is because it's mostly character interaction and oh yeah SATAN is a character in this fic. It can't hurt being cautious here.

After the nightmare demon was banished, everything returned to normal in the Spellman household, but not for long. Back in the underworld where the demon had returned to after being trapped in that Satan-forsaken box, it complained to anyone who listened, after being alone for decades it wouldn’t shut up.

 

   Soon, word came back to the Dark Lord Himself, hearing about how the sleep demon had been at the mercy of the Spellman’s for decades and had almost exacted its revenge, only to be thwarted by one of the younger Spellmans at the last moment.

 

   Naturally, He summoned the lesser demon to His infernal palace, it looked around bewildered and confused, until its eyes landed upon Him and it immediately went on all fours and bowing its head.

 

   “Dark Lord! It is a _great_ _honour_ to be in your presence, to be sum-“

 

   “I hEarD yOu HaVe EnCoUnTeReD tHe SpElLmAn FaMiLy. Is ThIs CoRrEctT, BaTiBaT?” the Dark Lord was not in mood for adulation from his followers and minions at this moment in time.

 

   Batibat briefly raised its head and glanced at the Dark Lord, trying to judge what His temperament was so as to tread lightly. But the Dark Lord only gave away what He want _others_ to see. But Batibat could only figure out that the Dark Lord was in a serious mood. He sat in His chthonic throne, waiting for an answer. The lesser demon would have to be careful with what they say and do from now on.

 

   “Yes, My Lord. I was trapped in that _wretched box_ by the patriarch of the family, Edward Spellman, and when I was _finally_ freed I sought to exact my revenge on the Spellman family for what they did to me by treating them to a similar punishment.” Batibat being out of the loop of the Dark Lord’s Plan concerning the Spellman’s, specifically the girl called Sabrina, relished retelling their tale of being trapped on Earth, and failed to notice that that was a massive faux pas when concerning the Dark Lord and His Plan.

 

   On the outside, the Dark Lord was patiently listening to Batibat’s story, but on the inside He was angry, furious, _outraged_. And His wrath was _potent_.

 

   He shoot out of His hellish throne, covered the steps leading up to it in just one step, and with one clawed hand lifted the unawares lesser demon by the throat.

 

   “YoU _dArE_ rUiN mY pLaN bY iNtErFeRiNg WiTh ThE sPeLlMaNs, WhO aRe PaWnS iN mY dEsIgN! I sHoUlD _pUnIsH_ yOu FoR tRyInG tO tHwArT mE!” Dark Lord shouted in the demon’s face.

 

   “My Lord, I simply did not _know_! You _never_ tell your servants about your Plan. If I had known, I would have avoided the Spellman family altogether. _Please_ forgive me, Dark Lord!” Batibat was struggling against the Dark Lord’s claws, trying to get a better hold so as to relieve some pressure on her throat, but it made no difference, she continued to squirm.

 

   “I aM uNdEr No ObLiGaTiOn To TeLl EvErY mInIoN tHaT rEsIdEs In _My DoMaIn,_ AbOuT mY _EaCh AnD eVeRy MaChInAtIoN_.” At this thought, He squeezed the pathetic demon’s throat, the eyes slightly bulging out as a result. “I WiLl sEe HoW mUcH dAmAgE tHaT yOu HaVe InFlIcTeD.”

 

   All of a sudden, Batibat was reliving it’s life from the moment it haunted Edward Spellman for the rest of his life to the moment it was banished by Sabrina Spellman.

 

  Then Batibat suddenly burst into flames, violently screaming and flailing against the iron grip of the Dark Lord who did not move, He just watched flames consume the putrid flesh of the minion. In seconds, the lesser demon has been reduced to a melting pile of flesh.

 

   The Dark Lord climbed the steps up to His throne and sat in it, and thought of damage control.

 

   With a wave of His hand in the direction of the melted goo on His brimstone floor, a random slave that lined His throne room walls darted to the oozing mass of fat and blood congealing on His floor, and promptly cleaned it up, with their mouth, of course. This _is_ Hell.

 

   While He enjoyed the sight of these poor, unfortunate souls licking up the mess, His thoughts kept returning to an idea He had when He saw the lesser demon’s memory of torturing the Spellmans, specifically one Spellman.

 

   He thought of how if He endorsed it and encouraged it even, it wouldn’t ruin His plan. In fact, it might further distract Sabrina Spellman, and give Him much needed amusement.

 

   He was going to endorse the courting and coupling of Hilda Spellman and Faustus Blackwood.

 

   He can imagine the intense confusion it would cause in the Spellman household and this caused Him to smile.

 

   He causally raised His arm, of which His beastly forearm was covered in the putrefying slime that was slowly cooling down. Immediately, a different slave ran to His side, kneeled beside His throne and started cleaning His grotesque forearm. The damned soul’s mouth instantly burned from the contact, but knew better than to stop.

 

   Yes, He was going to enjoy the commotion it would cause. He admitted to Himself, that it was a much more light-hearted entertainment than He usually witnessed and participated in. But He never wants to be bored.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

   Faustus was in his office going through paperwork late at night, normally he would be at home in his drawing room, with a good scotch in his hand and enjoying a good book by the fire. But he could not do that every night, otherwise the paperwork would pile up and he would never catch up.

 

   So, he stayed reading, signing and dating papers that needed his approval. He was only a third of the way through the haphazardly stacked papers on one side of his desk, when exhaustion forced him to pause in his writing; his heading nodding, his eyes closing, his writing hand relaxing. He fought against the pull of sleep, needing to finish writing this sentence.

 

   And he pushed back the wave of exhaustion, for now, and felt worse for it. His thoughts sluggish and his reaction speed slowed.

 

   It took him longer to realise that there was someone _in the room with him_.

 

  They were sitting in the guest chair.

 

  Faustus reacted with only mild surprise and confusion.

 

  “Dark Lord, what brings you here?” He inquired piously.

 

  “It HaS bEeN bRoUgHt To My AtTeNtIoN tHaT yOuR wIfE hAs DiEd FrOm ChIlDbIrTh.”

 

   “That is correct, My Lord. My wife and I have- _had_ … been struggling for some time on producing children.”

 

   “ThE cHiLd WiLl OnLy HaVe YoU tHeN aS fAmIlY.”

 

   “Yes, My Lord. I will care for the child, with the help of Zelda Spellman, of course. She was the midwife delivering my child and did her best to save Constance.”

 

   “ThE cHiLd WiLl NeEd TwO pArEnTs To GiVe HiM tHe BeSt ChAnCe At BeInG An UpStAnDiNg MeMbEr oF tHe ChUrCh Of NiGhT.”

 

   “ _Of course_ , Dark Lord. I am aware of raising a child as a single and grieving parent is difficult. That was why after I have mourned for the loss of my wife, I would-“

 

   “ThErE iS nO nEeD tO mOuRn. I wIsH fOr YoU tO sTaRt CoUrTiNg ImMeDiAtElY.”

 

   Father Blackwood was speechless in the face of the Dark Lord. And then realised that he should not keep Him waiting.

 

   “I have not even considered who to marry and be the mother to my child.”

 

   “YoU dO nOt HaVe To. I hAvE dEcIdEd ThAt HiLdA SpElLmAn ShAlL bE aN eXcElLeNt AdDiTiOn To yOuR fAmIlY.”

 

   “ _Hilda Spell_ \- I mean, I would not have chosen Hilda Spellman because she is not a true believer in the Dark Lord.”

 

   “AlL tHe BeTtEr FoR tHe HiGh PrIeSt tO mArRy HeR, tO bRiNg ThE bLaCk ShEeP bACk InTo ThE fOlD.”

 

   “ _Of course_ , Dark Lord. I did not mean to _question_ your judgement. I will follow your wishes.”

 

   Father Blackwood looks up from his desk after bowing his head and sees that the Dark Lord has gone, as though He was never there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

   Faustus wakes up from sleeping at his desk, it is morning and his neck and back are killing him.

 

   He straightens his spine, popping a vertebrae in the process.

 

   He notices that his paperwork was all done and stacked neatly on the other side of his desk.

 

   And just when he thought it was just a dream, he notices the fountain pen in his hand he was writing with was missing, and was replaced with an ominous, pitch-black feather that he knew somehow could write without a drop of ink. _A gift from the Dark Lord_ , he knew. _I should not view this as a gift-horse, this is a test from the Dark Lord Himself._

 

   Faustus took this as a sign that that dream had actually happened and the Dark Lord had actually conversed with him. _No_ , gave him an order.

 

   With this month’s paperwork all done and sorted, he knew what to do next.

 

   He picked up his cane, locked his office, and headed to the Spellman’s household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/6/2019 EDIT: I'm just over some typos, tightening some sentences, correcting grammatical mistakes. This is because I'm working on the next chapters and I really want them to line up, you know? And writing about the Dark Lord can be really frustrating when I write him talking, or should I say, Him talking. Now you know what I mean. I'm just doing this to make it more enjoyable, and I know that spelling mistakes and grammatical typos can disrupt that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Blackwood and Hilda meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god... How did I not notice this chapter wasn't out, I could have sworn I posted this. Anyways, I hope that this will make sense of what I already posted, for anyone who is scratching their heads if something doesn't make sense, that's probably why.
> 
> This is proof that I'm still new to posting fics on AO3, or anywhere really.

   In the Spellman household, all was relatively fine, considering that Sabrina with the help of her family had just about banished Batibat the sleep demon, back to hell.

 

   Everyone had just settled back into their normal routines. The sleep demon did a real number on their circadian rhythms, causing insomnia and terrible migraines for the whole Spellman family.

 

   It was morning, and everyone was still feeling the lingering effects of Batibat’s torture; at the breakfast table the only sounds that could be heard was the occasional squawk of a bird, the gentle clinking of a spoon scooping the contents of a cereal bowl, the crunch of toast being bitten into and the rustle of the local newspaper being read through.

 

   No one even entertained the thought of speaking, let alone conversing with one another. The hangover-like migraines only just beginning to fade after taking Hilda’s remedy for insomnia before going to bed last night.

 

   The doorbell rang, and groans of pain and discomfort were heard all around the breakfast table.

 

   “Ambrose, could you _please_ answer that _wretched_ door.” Zelda Spellman was wearing her sunglasses to disguise her puffy eyes, but she was fooling no one.

 

   “Auntie Hilda, I thought that the herbal remedy you gave us would work by now.” Sabrina whispered, her mind fuzzy in the bad sense, having a congested mind instead of a congested nose.

 

   “It _is_ working. It’s only supposed to negate the worst side effects of being tortured by that sleep demon.”

 

   “Well, it’s not working.” Sabrina tried not to whine, she really did. She knew that Hilda was doing her best to tend to her family, but this migraine was so bad that the sound of her corn flakes being eaten is _too loud_. How did she did not notice how loud corn flakes are when chewed on? Her migraine was so bad that Sabrina contemplated on giving up eating breakfast altogether, or maybe not eating loud things in general, but her hunger won out and she did notice the ever so slow retreat of the migraine.

 

   “Look, unless you’re experiencing hallucinations of Batibat still torturing you and you have trouble differing reality and dreams, then the nightcap I made everyone _is_ working. So _there_.” Hilda shot back. It seems when Hilda has a demon-induced migraine she becomes snippy and has little patience.

 

   All of a sudden, Zelda pushed down her newspaper which had not moved for the last minute, “The both of you, _quiet_!” The matriarch snapped.

 

   Ambrose comes back, hanging around the doorway. “Err, Auntie, Father Blackwood is here to see you.”

 

   Zelda stands up instantly, pushing her chair back causing it to skid and make noise, further aggravating the Spellmans’ migraines, but Zelda looked unaffected except for the tightening around her eyes. “I was not expecting him. And _so early_.” She started to straighten her clothing and hair, preparing herself.

 

   “No, Auntie Zelda, I me-”

 

   Father Blackwood could no longer wait in the foyer, he pushed passed, not unkindly, Ambrose aside. He looked like a man on a mission, as though nothing would make him waver from it.

 

   He strode into the kitchen and stopped in front Hilda just out of arm’s reach.

 

   Hilda tuned out Ambrose when he said Father Blackwood was here to see Auntie Zelda, and continued her work. Hilda was currently busy at the kitchen table, as usual, preparing the tea leaves used for insomnia and the grinding up the seeds used for strong hallucinations for the family’s nightcap for tonight again. _Another three days drinking this should do it_ , Hilda reckoned, making the calculations in her head. _But I should keep an eye out if I overuse the remedy, the side effects could be wor-_

 

   Hilda paused what she was doing when she noticed the presence of Father Blackwood not five feet away and facing her. _Am I in the way?_ Hilda thought, but no. Nothing was blocking Father Blackwood’s way to Zelda, or the living room, in fact. _Wait, does that mean he wants to speak with me? What could he ever want to-_

 

   “Hilda Spellman, I came to ask _you_ for help.” He said it as though it weighed heavy in his mind.

 

   “Father Blackwood, are you certain that it is not something I am _better equipped_ to assist you with?” Zelda walked around the breakfast table, in disbelief that Father Blackwood would rather ask Hilda for help, but recovered quickly. _Is this because I failed in preventing Constance’s death?_ Zelda tried reasoning Father Blackwood’s unprecedented behaviour.

 

   “ _Yes_ ,” He glanced at Zelda, wanting to dismiss that notion and the heavy insinuation that came along with it, “I need… It is something only _Hilda_ can help me with.” To hear Father Blackwood struggle to find words was new to the Spellmans, because they knew no one else more skilled in the delivery _of_ words.

 

_He must be troubled with something serious then, if he has to come to_ me _for help_. Hilda knew very well where she and Father Blackwood were on the social ladder, and they were quite far apart. She did not think of this as part of an inferiority complex or the like; it was a simple fact. She knew she was not like her sister, Zelda, who exudes confidence and sophistication, and frankly didn’t want to be that; too much work in ‘faking it ‘til you make it’ and all. No, Hilda was quite happy being who she was, and it was much easier too.

 

   “Wha- what could I help you with, Father Blackwood?”

 

   “I… have trouble sleeping and it’s starting to affect my work. I know you are the person to go to when suffering from an ailment. You’re affinity for potion-making is no secret in the Church.” The way Father Blackwood said it made sound as though there was more to want he was saying.

 

_Either that or he must be suffering from something debilitating,_ Hilda reasoned, _I mean, he wouldn’t want to be caught de-. Oh. Oh dear._

 

   “Certainly, I’ll um.” Hilda turns to Ambrose who was still standing by the doorway, “Ambrose, don’t you have work to do downstairs?” She turns around to Sabrina, spoon halfway to her gobsmacked mouth at seeing Father Blackwood _asking Hilda for help in their kitchen and dining room_ , “and Sabrina, shouldn’t you be ready for school?”

 

    After Hilda said that Sabrina blinked, grimaced at her now soggy corn flakes, leaves it by the kitchen sink and grabs an apple, “You’re right, I’m going to be late.” She hurriedly replies, looking at the kitchen clock, trots pasts Father Blackwood, takes her bag by the front door and leaves after saying bye.

 

   “Now, why don’t you tell us why you’re _really_ here, Father Blackwood.” Zelda slowly sauntered up to the kitchen table, Father Blackwood and Hilda being on the other side. She leaned on the table, careful of not getting her clothes dirty from the herbs, roots, leaves, pots and various measuring apparatuses cluttering the great oaken table.

 

   “I have not _lied_.” Father Blackwood stressed coldly, “I really do need your help, Sister Hilda.” He repeats sincerely, turned back to Hilda.

 

   His face was solemn and a little hollow. “Since Constance’s passing I have been unable to get a good night’s sleep. I always wake up more tired than before.” The man clearly looked uncomfortable admitting this out loud, admitting that he does have human limitations.

 

   “Right, well… It’ll take me a while to make you something.” Hilda broke eye contact with the sombre warlock in front of her. She made some quick calculations in a few seconds, of the time it would take to finish everyone’s nightcap for later that night, and to make a literal nightcap for Father Blackwood. “About half an hour? Maybe less? It’s just, I wasn’t expecting anyone. You don’t mind waiting for that long, Father Blackwood?” Hilda sheepishly offered, a bit caught off guard.

 

   Father Blackwood subtly observed the dowdy and rather domestic witch making the herbal remedy for him in her mind. He suddenly realised having front seat to watching this unassuming witch was quite entertaining, seeing all her little mannerisms, ticks and general puttering-about manner. _It’s actually quite amusing_ , Father Blackwood privately admitted to himself.

 

   “Hilda, Father Blackwood is a very busy man, he couldn’t _possibly_ stay for that long. School starts in forty minutes. I could deliver it to you at the Academy.” Zelda butted in again, imposing herself in the conversation.

 

   “Nonsense, I can wait 30 minutes.” He waved away Zelda’s offer, “The only benefit to not being able to sleep is that I have finally caught up with all the paperwork associated with running the Academy.”

 

   “Well, I’ll soon fix that.” Hilda said with humour and put the mortar and pestle she was working with on the only available space at the kitchen table and gestured to the living room, “You can wait in the living room, while I busy myself.”

 

   Father Blackwood seemed a little reluctant to the idea but nodded and did as Hilda asked.

 

   As soon as he was in the living room and out of the Spellman sister’s sights, Zelda rounded the table and came into Hilda’s side, “ _What was that_?” She hissed quietly, “This is _very_ unlike Father Blackwood.”

 

   “I agree, but I think it’s simply what he said. I don’t think there’s anything more than a grieving man having trouble finding sleep.” Hilda assured Zelda as she quickly finished up the family’s nightcap for tonight while also clearing way for more room for Father Blackwood’s order.

 

   “I did- I did _everything_ I could to prevent Constance from _dying_.” Zelda clearly guilt-ridden, her voice breaking, her eyes glassy.

 

   Hilda stopped what she was doing and was about to encircle her arms around her sister, giving her a well-deserved hug. But Zelda stepped back, blinking away the tears, lest she ruin her makeup, leaving Hilda with awkward, half-raised arms and feeling rejected. Again.

 

   Zelda straighten her clothes once again, making sure not a hair was out of place and said without looking back, “I’ll keep Father Blackwood busy, while you fix up something for him.”

 

 

 

 

   Father Blackwood was staring out of the window, not really admiring the modest view the Spellman house had. He stood with his back to the door, his hands and cane behind his back, deep in thought.

 

_I should have been more forward, Lord, why am I so_ nervous _?_ He harshly criticised himself _, I know_ why _. The Dark Lord_ Himself _has tasked me to court and later marry_ Hilda Spellman _, of all witches, why_ her _?!_ _Could it be that He values every member of the Church? Our numbers_ have _been in the decline for nearly 200 years now._ He reasoned, and it was true. Ever since the alarming rate of the advancement of technology and the ease of sharing information, new members have plummeted in both the Old World and the New. It’s now almost treated as state-wide news in the witch community when someone outside the established families joins any Church.

 

   And he’s going off on a tangent now-

 

   “Father Blackwood, it’s _certainly_ a surprise to see you here so early.” Zelda noted, trying to be demure and alluring, but now he sees it as laying it on rather thick. _Was I so easily lured by this? It’s becoming a bit old hat now._

 

   “Why is my visiting here so scrutinised? Can a man not ask for a bit of relief in the form of a herbal remedy from the burdens of being the High Priest and now a grieving widower and a single parent?” He was becoming emotional quite easily. This would never have happen before. He was always so controlled in the way he presented himself, and he would tightly regulate his emotions unless pushed to the breaking point. _My breaking point must have lowered significantly since Constance’s death_ , Father Blackwood thought rather gloomily.

 

   “I did not mean to aggravate you so.” Zelda trying to be soothing, she was now behind him and a little off to the side, within arm’s reach. “You know my services as a midwife are always open to you, Father Blackwood.”

 

   “That is quite…thoughtful of you, Sister Zelda. But I was thinking of someone else to assist me in rearing Judas.”

 

   This left Zelda gobsmacked, she could count on one hand all the eligible women that were single or had midwifery skills, including _herself_ and still had fingers to spare.

 

   “Wh- _who_ you could possibly have in mind? No one else in the Church has as nearly as much experience being a midwife as I do.” Zelda trying not to sound spurned, but Father Blackwood picked it up clear as day.

 

   He whirled around on the spot, catching Zelda off guard, with a thunderous expression on his face. His hands still hidden behind his back gripped his cane tightly. _I cannot be on bad terms with Zelda if I am to have a good chance of successfully courting Hilda. I must not upset Zelda, but she makes the urge to do so more and more attractive every time she opens her mouth_ , he rationalised, trying to rein in his emotions.

 

   “That is where you are _wrong_ , sister Zelda. I am not looking for someone to be a _wet nurse_ for my son. I am looking for a _mother_.”

 

   Zelda looked even more scandalised _, if that were even possible_ , Father Blackwood sniped in thought, “But Constance’s body is only-“

 

   “I know _perfectly well_ what condition Constance’s body is in now. I would rather be left alone to mourn for _my wife_ , who I was married to for the better part of my life. But no, I have been _told otherwise_.” He griped darkly almost to himself. Zelda’s caught that last sentence, there is only one person who can order the High Priest around.

 

   “The _Dark Lord_ has ordered you to-” Zelda was searching his face, looking for a reason why the Dark Lord would make an order so _menial_ and out of character of Him. “Are you sure it was Him? You did say you are suffering from a lack of sleep, perhaps you just-”

 

   “ _Imagined it?_ Are you questioning my sanity, now?” Father Blackwood now sporting an incredulous expression, which looked rather dangerous on his gothic facial features.

 

   “What, _no_. Father Blackwood, I did not mean to insinuate such an idea. I’m just worried for your health.” Even Father Blackwood with little sleep and much stress and expectation put upon him, could clearly see Zelda’s concern was genuine, and he now felt bad for verbally attacking her with little provocation.

 

   At this he put a hand to his forehead and rubbed at it, “I apologise.” Thinking if he could soothe the oncoming headache before it peaked, “I am…not myself these last few days. And I am taking it out on you.”

 

   “I understand. It’s my fault that-”

 

   “Don’t. Just… _don’t_. I am trying not to look at it that way, if I did I would forever be focused on the past, instead of being the father that Judas needs right now.”

 

   After hearing that, Zelda closed the space between them and held his other hand that was gripping his cane, when he no longer hid it behind his back, he could not say. He knew that Zelda was reaching out in more ways than one, and it was really very kind of her, it really was. However the kind gesture was wasted on him, no matter how vulnerable he was. He only felt awkward as he observed the touch of the pale, delicate hand touching his, the thumb stroking his knuckles back and forth, the nail painted blood red.

 

   There was a polite coughing coming from the doorway, and Father Blackwood retracted his hand from Zelda’s a little too quickly, and they both turned to see Hilda with a full velvet pouch about the size of his fist. Hilda stood in the doorway and was shifting a little uncomfortably, clearly witnessing a private moment between the High Priest and her sister. Having noticed that, Father Blackwood decided, _I must make sure to not be alone with sister Zelda from now on, to avoid any awkward misunderstandings like this in the future. It could very well lower Hilda’s opinion of me, if it hasn’t already_.

 

   Hilda pretending to not have seen them in such a position, ambled up to him and with a polite smile and plopped the surprisingly heavy velvet pouch in his hand.

 

   “I recommend you only use two teaspoonfuls of the crushed tea leaves, Father. Be sure to drink it an hour before you go to bed for it to be in full effect. And by the time you’ve finished the pouch, you will sleep soundly.”

 

   Having Hilda this close up, Father could clearly see that the genteel smile obviously stopped there and did not reach her eyes. _I must rectify that_ , Father Blackwood decided. So he fully turned and faced the humble-looking witch and said in his most sincere voice, “Thank you, Sister Hilda. I will follow your instructions closely.” He gestured to the surprisingly heavy and rotund velvet pouch in his free hand, _Good grief, what is_ in _this? If I tried to put this in my pocket, it would fall right through it._ He tried not to show his shock from the weight of the pouch handed to him. _She handled it without any strain, while I’m straining not to show it_.

 

   And with that he left the Spellman’s house, awkwardly carrying his rather heavy medicine, shifting it in his hold, trying to find the most comfortable way of travelling with the bloody thing.

 

 

 

Father Blackwood hadn’t left the grounds of Spellman’s house yet and already Zelda is spying out of the window.

 

   “What did he mean by ‘wet nurse’?” Zelda had her thumb pressed to her lips, the painted nail being worried delicately between her teeth. The other hand pushing the net curtain aside, offering the view of the High Priest walking away from their home.

 

   “Perhaps he’s looking for someone who would help raise the child and be there emotionally, and not just physically.” Hilda trying to comfort and ground Zelda’s thinking.

 

   “What would you know about _men_ , Hilda? You never had suitors, let alone a relationship with a man.” Zelda snapped, letting go of the netting and turning around facing a bewildered Hilda.

 

   “I’m only trying to help-” Hilda was wild-eyed, not expecting the verbal attack coming from nowhere.

 

   “Well, it’s gotten us nowhere. Don’t talk of things you know nothing about.” Zelda said with finality and barely held back emotions, and left the living room.

 

   _She’s just upset about being told something she doesn’t like, and wants to take it out on the nearest person as her punching bag. Unfortunately, it often ends up being me_. Hilda reasoned and quite reasonably so, but Zelda’s words still cut her deep all the same. And no amount of reasoning will soften the blow.

 

   Hilda knew perfectly well that in the Church of Night she is not only low on the social ladder, but she was also considered undesirable. She never tried to change that, the simple reason being; why try to be desirable in a society that belittles and looks down on her? It’s one of the few reasons why she likes the mortal world so. They were _kinder_ to her. Yes, there were a few mortals that weren’t, but those that are, are far more than those in the Church of Night.

 

   What Zelda said made her think, she has been left feeling neglected for too long now. It’s time to go out there and find a good man who will treat her right!

 

   _Now where do I find one? Before I get cold feet_ , Hilda rifling through her memories of Greendale, places where mortals congregate. _Ah!_ And so Hilda left with her coat and house keys in pocket without a backwards glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm an idiot. How did I not catch this? Posting this will (hopefully) make the story and the characters better.
> 
> Yeah, anyone who notices any discrepancies, typos or grammar mistakes, just let me know in the comments below and I'll get to it when I'm also posting the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda and Faustus' short trek to Greendale became an event of itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you talk to someone and then you say bye and leave, but you both notice that you're walking in the same direction or path, but you don't talk or acknowledge that, it's really awkward. That's happened to me a few times.

It was only a minute after leaving the Spellman’s home, when Faustus heard the busy footsteps coming up behind him, gaining slowly.

 

His thoughts on how to approach Hilda, preferably without Zelda nearby, and how to gain Hilda’s interest, were interrupted. Faustus turns around and sees Sister Hilda marching down the dirt road that led from her house with a determined look on her face. It was the same and only road he was also walking down.

 

 _if we keep meeting at this rate I’ll be courting Sister Hilda by tomorrow and be married in a week_ , Faustus thought rather snidely.

 

“Sister Hilda.” Father Blackwood acknowledged Hilda’s presence politely when they were side by side.

 

“Father Blackwood.” Even in Father Blackwood’s presence Hilda’s determination wavered little. Hilda was not thinking that when she mustered the motivation to find herself a man, Father Blackwood would still be walking down on their private road only a hundred yards away. She kept sneaking glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice, but he did. Father Blackwood had the presence of mind not to force eye contact and therefore catch her in the act of failing to be surreptitious while eyeing him.

 

He would not force conversation in this situation with Sister Hilda without a natural catalyst, and if one did not present itself, then he might have to devise one himself. Fortunately, an opening did manifest itself in the way of Hilda tripping over a rock that was embedded in the dirt road. Had she been paying attention to where she was walking and not on him, then she would have seen it. Of course, Faustus had but made no mention of it, knowing that Hilda would likely trip and that would be his opportunity to further ingratiate himself on Hilda.

 

The rock was size of a fist and worn down to a smooth surface, and when Hilda stepped on it awkwardly, she wobbled dangerously, her arms wind-milling wildly, and that was when Faustus swooped in with a hand on her elbow to steady her whilst avoiding getting hit in the face with the blitheringly, clumsy witch’s backhand. Hilda, naturally, latched onto Faustus like a lifeline for fear of literally falling on her face, Or arse. Which is worse? Face or arse? Hilda debated internally, and couldn’t make up her mind, both outcomes would be equally humiliating with Father Blackwood as an eyewitness to her occasional clumsiness.

 

So, Hilda held on to the poor, unsuspecting High Priest tightly and instead of saving face in front of and by Father Blackwood, Hilda brought him down with her. They both fell awkwardly to the ground, Father Blackwood had been winded by Sister Hilda landing on top of him. But just as he was registering that he was lying on the dirt road with Sister Hilda crushing his lungs, Hilda was immediately standing, spewing out apologies faster than he can raise himself by the elbows. When he did raise his head a few inches of the ground, he was quickly pulled to his feet by the hand; his other still gripping the blasted medicine pouch.

 

Instantly Sister was fretting around him and brushing away all the dirt off his clothes whilst muttering apologetically still. Sister Hilda didn’t stop until Father Blackwood captured both her hands surrounded by his own, “Sister Hilda, please. It was an accident, it was no one’s fault. Really, your concern is unwarranted.” Faustus said this in a way that would soothe Sister Hilda’s anxiety and fear. If he noticed how much she blushed at the physical contact of his hands encompassing hers, then all the better, he thought conspiringly.

 

 _If I had both hands free I wouldn’t be on the bloody ground_ , he thought bitterly.

 

When Hilda opened her mouth to speak, she said timidly and staring at their joined hands, “I- Thank you…Father Blackwood. I… I really should be going, I wasted enough of your time already.” At this Father Blackwood pretended that he had forgotten he was still clasping Hilda’s hands, and acted a bit sheepish and let go of them, when he knew perfectly well how he was portraying himself to Hilda. No, you have not. Not when the Dark Lord commands it of me, Father Blackwood made sure that he only showed awkwardness in how he moved his body and bashfulness in his voice and face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _I knew it! Something’s not right_ , _Father Blackwood is acting out of character. I mean, he rarely visits our house, and certainly not through the front door like everyone else,_ Sabrina thought conspiratorially, crouching in the bushes on the side of the road only twenty feet away from Auntie Hilda and Father Blackwood. _This doesn’t feel right. I need to get to the bottom of this_. Sabrina determined. She waited until the both of them were out of sight and she ran to school, hoping that her friends would help her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Dark Lord softly chuckled menacingly at the light entertainment displayed before Him through a wall of hellfire. He was slouching on his hellish throne, a foul elbow propped on one armrest and a beastly leg draped over another. He looked relaxed, casual even -a few even dare think _playful_ , but no one, be they slaves, underlings, thralls, minions, followers or subordinates with half a wit about them would dare say it near His presence, let alone _to_ Him.

 

But are those without half a wit that _did_ dare to question Him about this little plan of His.

 

A minion who was only just been promoted in rank. And that meant an audience with the Dark Lord.

 

The newly promoted minion was oblivious to the ways of addressing Him, did not know that even politely questioning Him and His actions either lands them with a vague and cryptic answer or the most painful and creative ways of torture and termination. It is one of the few reasons why the Dark Lord is feared and revered so much and in equal measure; no one knows what His next move will be.

 

The minion enters the massive throne room, walked toward their Dark Lord and stopped ten feet away from the wall of hellfire showing moving images of Earth, specifically three humans; two were together and another spying on them from afar. Seeing this puzzled them, why would the Dark Lord find delight in something so tame and trivial? But they must not let this distract them from why they were here in the first place.

 

The Dark Lord made no show of acknowledging their presence, so they spoke, “Dark Lord, I have come to you to pledge my loyalty to your cause, as an underling that has worked tirelessly to suit the earth to our climate.” They bowed down as per etiquette when first meeting The Dark Lord by promotion, at least _that_ they knew how to do.

 

The wall of hellfire they were kneeling next to moved soundlessly without disturbing its flames nor the moving pictures. The demon underling looked up but still bowing, they saw the Dark Lord had waved away the wall of all-consuming fire to one side only a few feet away from the slaves that lined both sides of the throne room walls, no doubt intentionally so; the flames were so close the damned souls could reach out and touch it easily. However, the unfortunate souls were too well trained to flinch or move a hand to wipe away the sweat.

 

“Perhaps I should come back another time, My Lord?” The demon thought they broached the question rather diplomatically.

 

The Dark Lord didn’t respond, but rose from His throne and casually walked down the few steps and stopped in front of the still kow-towing minion. A human would make the comparison of a musical statue or a street performing artist, but the Dark Lord likened it to a prey animal playing dead in the hopes that the predator would lose interest or not notice them. As He grew closer, the Dark Lord could see the ignorant minion shake from being scrutinised so closely by the Dark Lord and, and it didn’t know what it did wrong. So it dropped to the floor, kowtowing still.

 

“GoRgOmEtH, wHaT dO yOu sEe iN tHaT hElLfIrE?” Satan said, slowly circling around the clueless demon.

 

Gorgometh’s snout had touched the floor that was equal parts foul and sacred, and turned their head to the side. They saw the hellfire now displaying two humans, talking. Just… talking to each other. There was no murdering, no torturing, no raping. They weren’t even shouting at one another. They were just talking. It was all so… _civilised_.

 

“I see… two humans. Speaking. To each other.”

 

“CaN yOu GuEsS wHy ThAt Is?”

 

Gorgometh tried to rack their brains, they really did. “Are they about to betray each other?”

 

The sound of Satan chuckling is something disturbing to the ear. “WhAt MaKeS yOu SaY tHaT?”

 

“I- I don’t know, My Lord.”

 

“ThAt WiLl NoT sAtIsFy YoUr LoRd AnD mAsTeR.” Now the Dark Lord had grown tired of being coy and was now impatient.

 

“It’s something that I would do! It was all I could think of.” The demon tried not to sound weak or, hell forbid, defensive.

 

“WhIcH iS iT? sOmEtHiNg YoU wOuLd Do? Or It WaS aLl YoU cOuLd ThInK oF?”

 

“I- er. Er. Both!” This answer dissatisfied the Dark Lord immensely. He stopped behind the kowtowing, shivering minion and viciously dug His claws into the snivelling demon’s flapping ear and wrenched it near His eye level.

 

“YoU’rE bEhAvIoUr NoW sHoWs Me ThAt YoU aRe ToO aCcUsToMeD tO pOiSoNoUs MaChInEs AnD pOlLuTiNg ChEmIcAlS tHaT yOu FaIL dIsMaLlY aT tHwArTiNg HuMaNs ThEmSeLvEs.” An idea had took seed inside the Dark Lord’s mind.

 

“Please, My Lord! I can, I can still lead them astray. Just let me prove it to you!” Gorgometh begged.

 

“HoW?” The Dark Lord watched the pitiful excuse of a demon scrapping together an impressive enough idea to remedy the dire situation the Dark Lord has put this worm of a demon through.

 

“The- the- the- the humans!” The worm’s jowls and ears flap as it gesticulates towards His Hellfire view of Faustus Blackwood and Hilda Spellman just outside the outskirts of Greendale. “I can, I can prevent them from conspiring with each other!”

 

“ThAt Is ToO eAsY eVeN fOr A dEmOn As InCoMpEtEnT aS yOu. No, YoU wIlL iMpEdE tHeM bY mAkInG iT dIfFiCuLt FoR tHoSe tWo To MeEt, BuT nOt ImPoSsIbLe. ThEy MuSt NeVeR sUsPeCt FoUl pLaY.”

 

For any other demon they would find the last sentence a bit of a quandary; a demon at Gorgometh’s level of power could easily prevent two humans from ever meeting in an endless number of creative ways, but to slow down? To impede? And to do whilst hiding it was a demon? It was _unusual_ , but nearly every demon would agree with Gorgometh to never question the Dark Lord’s Plan. Except Battibat.

 

“I wIlL kNoW wHeN yOu HaVe SuCcEeDeD, gOrGoMeTh. I wIlL bE _wAtChInG_.” And with no warning at all, the Dark Lord grips Gorgometh’s ear more painfully and spears his claws into the demon’s rump and hurls it through the Hellfire with no effort at all, with the sound of Gorgometh squealing like the sad excuse of a demonic pig that it was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“What was that?” Hilda exclaimed, shook, her eyes darting around.

 

Faustus and Sister Hilda were just in walking distance of Greendale, there were no streetlights or sidewalks quite yet. So they could not see what caused the giant thud. But they could see the disturbed wild shrubbery not twenty feet away from them shake. And there was a horrendous squealing noise from it.

 

Faustus had put himself between whatever in Satan’s name it was and Sister Hilda, his hands landing gently on her shoulders, just resting there, a comforting presence. He didn’t think of doing it, didn’t calculate it or saw it as another opportunity, but Faustus chalked it up as one. _Already my body reacts to exploiting Sister Hilda_ , Faustus noted.

 

“Most likely a wild boar.” Faustus reasoned quite reasonably, going by the sound of its ugly squealing.

 

“Perhaps we should walk to town faster. If we keep standing here, we might provoke the poor thing.” Hilda leaning in the direction of the safety of Greendale’s well-lit, paved sidewalks.

 

“That _poor thing_ can kill a man.” Faustus snapped at Hilda, his patience towards Hilda being, well, Hilda being diverted to his attention at the looming creature concealed in the dense undergrowth. He gripped his walking cane tightly.

 

Faustus took a step back, signalling to Hilda to retreat slowly. The squealing stopped, however the disturbance of the shrubbery was getting more and more pronounced. Just how big was this boar?

 

Wild boars are not known for being majestic, or cunning, or even beautiful to look at. But one of two things they are known for are being butt ugly. The other thing was being aggressive as shit. But this wild boar was the biggest, gnarliest, pissed off-looking pig Faustus and Hilda had ever seen. It was the size of a large dog, its tusks worryingly long and splintered, and it was missing a big chuck of its ear, blood down one side of its face and coating one of its front legs. It chuffed, pointing its snout to the ground, its tusks aimed at them and charged.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Father Blackwood has never felt so _humiliated_ in his life. Chased by a wild boar!

 

Thankfully, it seemed spooked by the signs of civilisation that he and Sister Hilda took refuge in. They were both catching their breaths in the comfort and safety of stepping into Greendale.

 

The next time he sees that horrible mangy animal, he’ll kill it.

 

“Sister Hilda, are you injured?” Father Blackwood has mostly caught his breathe, his heart just now slowing, his cheeks flushed.

 

Hilda was leaning against a building with a hand to her side, huffing and wheezing. Father Blackwood was expecting a reaction like that from Sister Hilda from any sort of sudden exercise. However, there was more than one reason for his concern for Sister Hilda’s state. Despite managing to outpace that mangy wild boar, Father Blackwood dared to look behind them occasionally and saw that it was literally at their heels. Well, Sister Hilda’s kitten heels to be exact, he was a couple of feet ahead. Father Blackwood just about pulled off (again literally) Sister Hilda from the diseased-looking, crazed pig from impaling Sister Hilda’s overworked calves with its gnarled tusks.

 

“I’m…fine…just…out of…breathe.” Hilda was already sporting a sweaty upper lip and brow, her hair was half wild, a few strands sticking to her skin. She was really tempted to take off her coat, just to cool off. But in the presence of Father Blackwood, the High Priest of the Church of Night and leader of the witch community, it was out of the question. She would endure it until they went their separate ways. They were in town, after all, that is why both were walking down the same dirt road in the first place.

 

“Are you sure?” Father Blackwood faced Hilda, really paying attention to her now, “That boar was very determined. I saw it jumping at you repeatedly when it got too close.”

 

This was true, when the deformed boar was right behind Hilda, it would jump and raise it’s head, trying to spear Hilda in her back or side with its tusks. Father Blackwood saw this and reacted by tugging on Hilda’s hand, causing her to almost stumble, but it worked. This happened several times during the 300 yard sprint from the Spellman household to the outreaches of Greendale. And every time, Father Blackwood would roughly pull on Hilda’s arm.

 

Father Blackwood had now completely recovered, approached Sister Hilda, who was still panting and leaning on a wall for support. “Sister Hilda, may I see?” Father Blackwood slowly raised his hand to motion at Hilda’s side she was holding.

 

Hilda had up until then been focused on recovering her breathe, her strength and her composure, and tried not to think too self-consciously in the presence of Father Blackwood. So when she finally looked up to see Father Blackwood facing her with a look of genuine concern for her, well, her tentative composure went up in smoke.

 

Father Blackwood was even more handsome with a bit of colour in his cheeks accompanied with an soft look thawing his normally glacial eyes, making him human for once and not a brooding villain straight out of a Victorian novel.

 

It… _did things_ to Hilda. Ti was doing things which were counterproductive to gaining her said composure and breathe. Her face heated back up. _Damn_ , she cursed inwardly, though at herself or appreciating the view Father Blackwood was the star of, she wanted to say with ninety percent (which was decreasing in real time) certainty it was the former and not the latter.

 

“Please, Sister Hilda, I need to see if you’re hurt.” Father Blackwood placed his hand over hers on her side. It was warm, Hilda noted, and gentle.

 

“It’s…just…a stitch.” Hilda was embarrassed to admit it, but that was why she was so slow from running from that wretched boar. She really wanted to avoid telling Father Blackwood this, her Church’s High Priest, her physical inadequacy, another failing of her as a witch.

 

Father Blackwood curled his fingers around Hilda’s hand, he could feel the slight scratchy feeling of the wool coat against his fingertips. He could also feel, now having placed his hand top of Hilda’s, the rapid expanding and retracting of Hilda’s side, still trying to catch her breathe back, but it stuttered when he closed his long fingers around Hilda’s shorter ones.

 

“Please.” Hearing that word all day from Blackwood was unusual, from the limited personal experience and knowing his reputation as a calculating and somewhat cold man, his powerful position in the Church of Night and power in general, Father Blackwood did not need to ask for anything. On top of that, they were aimed at her, it was an odd experience. _Perhaps the death of his wife has really affected him_ , she concluded. Either way, hearing that word from Father Blackwood’s lips was compounding the effects of things being done. Down _there_.

 

So she relented, and let Father Blackwood slowly and carefully pry her hand away from her side. Father Blackwood was prepared for the worst, but was met with no wound in Hilda’s side. Though he did see her wool coat was ruined; the boar managed to graze against her coat, causing a hole big enough for him to fit his finger, the damaged ends around the hole all straggly. And how did Father Blackwood know the hole was big enough to fit his finger? Why, he stuck it in, of course!

 

Hilda squeaked and stiffened immediately, not expecting Father Blackwood to wiggle his surprisingly dexterous index finger against her cardigan she wore underneath.

 

“The boar managed to graze your coat, but miraculously your side appears to be unharmed.” Father Blackwood said apologisingly, pulling his finger out of her now ruined coat. “But it also looks like that blasted boar tore your skirt as well, Sister Hilda.” He mentioned, about to lower his arm.

 

And before Father Blackwood could ask, Sister Hilda pulled her ankle-length skirt above her calves, showing Father Blackwood that her legs were fine, though her skirts were also a casualty. “See, Father Blackwood? I’m fine.” She turned around to fully face him, “Thanks to you, it’s only my coat and skirt that were mauled.” Hilda, bless her, was trying to lighten the mood by being her bubbly self. Emphasis on the word, _trying_.

 

Father Blackwood who poised himself to look at Hilda’s stockinged calves, had been beaten to the punch and clearly saw the skirt rise, revealing that they were whole and unharmed and now knew what colour she wore (it was purple).

 

“Right, well then,” he coughed, “I shall, inform the school about the boar.”

 

“Yes! I’ll tell the police to be on the lookout of it, too.” Father Blackwood was about to object, not wanting the mortal authorities involved, but thought about it. As far as he could tell, the boar was just that; a boar, albeit a rather large boar in a very sorry-looking state and in a pissed-off mood. It was the likeliest reason why it targeted Sister Hilda and him, all injured and infected like that. Must have been threatened by their presence. Yes, that was it.

 

Father Blackwood gave a curt nod, “I would only ask that you take extra precaution when walking back home, Sister Hilda.” He requested in a voice that left no room for argument.

 

“Of course, Father Blackwood.” Hilda had, by now, regained most of her composure and all of her breathe. “I only ask that you do the same.” Hilda acquiesced.

 

Father Blackwood nodded, paused, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been over two months since I posted the last chapter, I really didn't mean to keep you guys waiting for so long. My circumstances are different now since then that it prevents me from writing and thinking up more ideas and stories as much as I would like, so I want you to know that the chapters from now on will be more spaced out like this chapter.
> 
> I also didn't want to pressure myself into writing if I didn't really feel in the mood, because that's a quick way into taking out all the passion in what you like to do. That, and I really hope you like this chapter, I made it longer to make for the long wait for you readers! ୧⍢⃝୨
> 
> I don't know if you noticed if my writing style is different, because I just finished reading Good Omens after more than a month.
> 
> Again, constructive criticism is appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Please share your thoughts and leave a comment, it would be much appreciated.
> 
> This is my first fic so go gentle on me.
> 
> If you see any mistakes like spelling or grammar, just let me know.
> 
> EDIT: I'm thinking of changing the title, it could be better. It's really a placeholder, otherwise I'd be sitting on this fic for who knows how long thinking of the best title.
> 
> 2ND EDIT: The previous title was always a placeholder, and I wanted a title that better reflected what the fic was about. And for readers to discern for themselves if they want to read it or not.


End file.
